Rathbone felt himself sympathizing and, to his amazement, also believing him. “Then what happened?” he asked, although he knew.

Rupert looked down again. “About a week later Parfitt sent a letter to my home, inviting me to join them on the boat again. I burned the letter.”

“But he wrote again?”

“Yes. I ignored it the second time. Burned it without opening it, actually. The third time he sent a letter to my father. I recognized the writing. I burned the one to my father, but I read the one to me. He said that I had entered into a contract with him, and there was a photograph to prove it. Whether I went to the boat again or not, I still owed him the money.”

“Blackmail.” Rathbone nodded. It was cleverer than he had thought, much harder to prove in court. How could he show that there had been no “gentleman’s agreement”? Such things were often unwritten, especially regarding something like gambling, or the services of a prostitute. No one put those “agreements” in writing.

Rupert nodded. “I realized it only then. God, I was so stupid!” His voice was heavy with self-disgust.

“Did you pay?”

Rupert’s face tightened. “With that photograph? Of course I did. I meant to buy myself a little time, and then think what to do. I knew if I didn’t do something, the bastard would have me paying for the rest of my life.”

Rathbone looked at him, searching his eyes. He saw desperation, profound embarrassment, even shame, but curiously, no awareness of having just admitted to the perfect motive for murder. Was that because he felt himself justified? And if he did, could Rathbone disagree with him? If ever a man deserved to be gotten rid of, it was Mickey Parfitt. Thinking of him, it was as if Jericho Phillips had risen from the dead.

“Well, you’re rid of him now,” he said with asperity.

“Hardly,” Rupert said bitterly. “He’ll take me down to the grave with him. It almost makes me wish I had killed him!”

“Didn’t you?”

Rupert’s head jerked up, his eyes hot. “No, I didn’t!”

Rathbone was used to denial. Almost everyone claimed either that they did not do it at all or that, if they did, it was either an accident or the victim deserved it. And yet he was on the brink of believing Rupert Cardew, which was totally unreasonable. Every scrap of evidence pointed to him.

“Then, who did?” he said grimly. “With your cravat?”

“I don’t know. Whoever found it, I suppose.”

Rathbone opened his eyes wide. “They chanced on your cravat, lying wherever it was, and thought, ’Ah, I know what I’ll do with this. I’ll tie a few knots in it, and then I’ll strangle someone. What about Mickey Parfitt? We’d all be better off without him.’ ”